Barcelona

Barcelona smelled of salt, exhaust fumes, and frying garlic. It was vibrant, loud, and alive—everything I wasn't feeling.

The pistol Stephan had given me was tucked into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. It felt like a block of ice against my skin, a heavy, cold reminder that I wasn't a student anymore. I was an accessory to whatever felony Stephan was about to commit.

We walked down a narrow, cobblestone street in the Gothic Quarter. The buildings leaned in on each other, blocking out most of the midday sun, casting long, crooked shadows.

"Stop touching it," Stephan said without looking at me. He was walking a step ahead, his hands in his pockets, looking like a bored tourist who had taken a wrong turn.

"I'm not," I lied, quickly pulling my hand away from the hem of my shirt where the gun was printing. "It’s digging into my spine. Can’t I just put it in my purse?"

"If you need it, you won't have time to dig past your lip gloss and breath mints," he drawled. He stopped in front of a heavy, graffiti-covered wooden door that looked like it hadn't been opened since the Inquisition.

"This is it?" I whispered, looking around. The street was suspiciously empty. "He lives in a dump?"

"He likes privacy. And he likes to be underestimated." Stephan raised his hand and knocked—a specific rhythm. Two hard, one soft, two hard.

Silence.

Stephan frowned. The tiny tap of his thumb against his ring finger started.

"Stay behind me," he murmured, his voice shifting from bored to lethal in a nanosecond.

He pushed the door. It swung open with a rusty screech. It wasn't locked.

"That’s bad, isn't it?" I asked, my voice pitching up. "Unlocked doors in a fortress are usually bad."

Stephan didn't answer. He drew his weapon—a fluid motion that was terrifyingly practiced—and stepped into the gloom. I swallowed the lump in my throat and followed, my hand drifting back to the cold steel at my back.

The interior was a chaotic mess of overturned furniture, shattered glass, and torn books. It looked like a tornado had touched down inside an antique shop.

"Dante!" Stephan called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

A groan came from the back of the room, behind a toppled bookshelf.

Stephan moved toward the sound, gun raised. I followed, stepping over a broken bust of Julius Caesar.

We found him. An older man with a shock of white hair and a suit that looked like it had once been expensive was tied to a radiator. His face was a map of bruises, blood dripping from a cut above his eye.

"Stephan," the man wheezed, spitting blood onto the floor. "You’re late."

Stephan holstered his gun instantly, dropping to his knees to untie the man. "Who did this, Lorenzo?”

"Who do you think?" Lorenzo coughed, wincing as Stephan worked the ropes. "Marvinez’s dogs. They were waiting. They knew... they knew you were coming today."

My stomach dropped through the floor. The guilt hit me so hard I nearly staggered. They knew. Because I didn't say anything. Because I let Brielle make that call.

Stephan froze. He looked at Dante, his eyes narrowing. "How? No one knew the timeline."

"They knew," Lorenzo rasped. "They left five minutes ago. Said they were going to set up the—"

Click.

The sound of a gun slide racking back came from the shadows near the entrance.

Stephan stopped moving. He didn't turn around. He just slowly raised his hands, signaling me to do the same.

"Setup complete," a voice sneered.

Three men stepped out from the darkened kitchen area. They were big, wearing leather jackets that creaked as they moved, pointing automatic weapons at us.

"Stephan Ivanovich," the lead man said, grinning to reveal a gold tooth. "The boss sends his regards. And he thanks you for the update on your travel plans."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Stephan’s gaze flicked to me—just for a fraction of a second. It wasn't accusatory, not yet. It was calculating.

"You boys are far from home," Stephan said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He stood up slowly, positioning himself slightly in front of me. "Marvinez usually keeps his pets on a shorter leash."

"Drop the gun, Ivanovich. Kick it over."

Stephan moved slowly, reaching into his jacket with two fingers and pulling out his weapon. He bent his knees to set it on the floor.

"Alina," Stephan said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "When I move, you drop."

"What?" I squeaked.

"Now!"

Stephan didn't drop the gun. He spun, kicking the heavy oak coffee table toward the gunmen.

Bullets chewed into the wood as the table flipped. Stephan dove, rolling behind a heavy armchair and firing two shots. The lead gunman grunted and went down.

"Get down!" Stephan roared at me.

I scrambled behind the overturned bookshelf near Lorenzo, covering my head as the room turned into a deafening echo chamber of gunfire. Plaster exploded from the walls; glass shattered.

I peeked out. Stephan was pinned down. Two gunmen were flanking him, moving in a pincer formation. He was reloading, but he was trapped. One of the men—a bald giant with a scar running down his face—was circling wide, aiming for the gap in Stephan’s cover.

He had a clear shot at Stephan’s back.

Time slowed down.

I looked at the gun in my hand. My fingers were shaking so bad I thought I’d drop it. I’m a healer, my brain screamed. I fix holes, I don't make them.

But the man was raising his rifle. He was going to kill him.

I didn't think. I stood up from behind the bookshelf.

"Hey!" I screamed, my voice cracking.

The bald giant turned, surprised to see the girl popping up like a whack-a-mole.

I aimed the gun. I didn't aim for his head or his heart. I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The recoil jerked my arm back violently.

I missed the man entirely. The bullet shattered a massive crystal chandelier hanging directly above him.

The giant looked up just in time to see five hundred pounds of crystal and brass detach from the ceiling.

He didn't even have time to scream before it crashed down on him, burying him in a glittering, deadly pile of debris.

The room went silent for a heartbeat.

Stephan took the opening. He popped up from behind the chair and put two rounds into the chest of the final gunman. The man crumpled.

Silence returned, heavier than before, broken only by the settling dust and Dante’s wheezing laughter.

"That," Lorenzo coughed, "was dramatic."

I stood there, the gun smoking in my hand, staring at the pile of crystal where a man used to be. My knees turned to water, and I slumped back against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floor.

Stephan was there in an instant. He kicked the gun away from the fallen man and rushed over to me. He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping my shoulders, checking me for holes.

"Alina," he barked, his eyes wide. "Are you hit?"

I shook my head, unable to speak. "I... the chandelier... I didn't mean to..."

"You did good," he breathed, pulling me into his chest. His heart was hammering against my ear—a frantic, erratic rhythm that matched my own. He was shaking. "You did good, moy malen'kiy voin (my little warrior)."

He held me tight, his face buried in my hair. I clung to him, the smell of gunpowder and cologne filling my senses.

But as the adrenaline faded, the cold reality washed over me.

They knew we were coming.

Stephan pulled back, holding my face in his hands. His expression hardened, the analytical machine coming back online.

"They knew the exact time, Alina," he said quietly. "Only three people knew we were coming to this address today. Me. Lorenzo."

He paused, his thumb brushing the soot from my cheek.

"And the people in my house."

I looked into his eyes, and I couldn't hold the lie anymore. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and shameful.

"Stephan," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I need to tell you something."